Rikki Tikki Tavi
by Vizardry
Summary: Maybe Harry's right, maybe he does have a type.


Author's Note: This as written for the Sherlock remix exchange and inspired by A Personal Monograph on the Identification of Animal Totems by keerawa.

A huge thank you to **judas river** for beta

* * *

"My God, John," Harry says, as soon as the initial bustle of greetings and introductions are over, and John and Mary have eased way into their seats. "You really do go for a type, don't you?"

Twenty-two seconds, John thinks. Twenty-two seconds into dinner and already they are heading close to the 'let's embarrass John as much as possible' portion of the evening. Brilliant.

Mary, unhelpfully, looks amused. "What's this?" she asks.

Her eyes are sparkling – she already seems to like Harry, charmed by the enthusiasm of her greeting, the bluntness of her manner. Well. People often find Harry refreshingly frank when they first meet her – it usually isn't until later that they realise she's actually just a pain in the arse.

"Felines," Harry says, leaning closer with a knowing look at Mary. Mary's eyebrows rise.

"It's just some stupid idea she's got into her head because I dated a couple of girls with cat totems at university." John says hastily. "Which was a coincidence. I _don't_ only date felines."

"Oh, he's dated all sorts. I mean, really, _all sorts_," Harry says, meaningfully. "But whenever he's serious about someone I know she's going to be some sort of cat. What breed are you? Siamese?"

"_Harry_," John snaps. Harry's never been great with boundaries but asking someone you don't know directly about their totem is crossing the line, really, really crossing it.

"Mary doesn't mind, do you?" Harry turns to pat Mary's hand.

"I don't mind, but I'm afraid it's a boring answer. I'm just an ordinary domestic tabby. I was _so_ disappointed when I found out," Mary laughs, showing small sharp canines. "I'm sure you're something exotic, aren't you?"

Harry smiles broadly at the compliment. "Hummingbird," she says, and she takes a delicate sip from her mango juice as if to prove the point.

"Oh, how lovely," Mary says. Her eyes meet John's briefly and then quickly dart away again.

John had dreamt of Mary's totem the first night they'd spent together. He'd found himself walking through a dense forest, the trees pressing so close, around him and above him, that even with his excellent night vision, he could barely see a thing ahead. But then, in the brief moments when the moon broke through the canopy above, he'd caught glimpses of sleek isabelline fur and the reflective glow of pale green eyes peering at him from the dark. He'd never got a clear look at her, but he is quite sure the animal he'd seen _wasn't_ an ordinary house cat.

John slips a hand over Mary's under the table. If she doesn't want to tell the truth about her totem to his nosy blabbermouth of a sister, that's fair enough. It's not like John hasn't dodged a few enquiries about his own over the years. People never felt quite as comfortable with you once they knew you were a predator, especially not the undomesticated sort.  
"Can I take your order?" A harrassed looking waitress arrives at their table, and John turns with a feeling of relief.

"Yeah, I think I'm ready. Mary?"

* * *

John's totem appeared late – he was almost twelve years old when it came. Harry had got hers, aged only eight, while napping on the car ride up to see their cousins in Aberdeen. She'd conked out on John's shoulder, drooling onto his shirt and when she'd woken she had a huge smile on her face, as if she didn't think she'd have anything to worry about ever again. For a moment John had been almost paralysed with jealousy. Every one of the kids in his year _and_ the year below knew their totem, and now even his little sister had hers. John had begun to feel it would never come, the nagging worry _what if no animal wants me_ keeping him awake at nights.

Then, one night, when he finally nodded off he dreamt of sand, a vast whistling waste of it. The sky overhead was vast and colourless and the wind was parching, whipping up drifts of sand to pepper his face and sting his eyes. The clouds were building in the nothing-coloured sky and John knew with a certainty he wouldn't question until later, that a storm was coming. He needed to find shelter, but he didn't know this place. Where could he go?

It was then he heard a low chittering sound, and felt the brush of something soft against his ankle. A small creature, almost the same colour as the sand but flecked with black, with a long puffed-out bottlebrush tail. Its eyes, small and bright, watched him. John tilted his head to look at it and the creature tilted his head in return, as if it thought it was John's mirror.

"Hello," said John.

The creature bounded in a fluid motion towards him, nudging at the back of his legs, before trotting away again and pausing, looking back.

"You want me to follow you?"

John was pretty sure that if the creature could, it would be rolling its eyes at him. Instead let out a short impatient-sounding gabble of sound and started moving again, moving in light bouncing movements across the dunes. John followed as best as he was able. His feet were much heavier than the creature's and sank into the sand as he walked. The gritty wind stung his eyes and made it difficult to see but John kept his eyes fixed upon the movement of the creature's bobbing tail. Eventually the creature turned and burrowed into the side of a sand bank revealing a small hole, the entrance to a burrow. It disappeared inside it with one flick of its tail.

"I'm too big to fit in there," John said, but then abruptly found that that wasn't true – the entrance seemed to gape open wide in front of him and when he moved forwards into it, he found his hands had been transformed into small black paws.

Inside it was dim, and warm, the floors and ceiling feeling thankfully solid and compact after the treacherous softness of the sand. Outside the storm had begun in earnest – John heard the hiss of rain on the warm sand, a white flash of lightning illuminating the place from inside and reflecting in the dark beady eyes of his saviour.

"Thank you," John said. "I don't know what I'd have done without you."

The creature darted closer to him and emitted a low soft sound, rubbing its small hard nose against John's. It made the same soft chittering sound in his ear and suddenly John knew. He had finally been chosen.

* * *

When John woke, he went immediately to the sitting room where Mum's _Encyclopedia of Totems and Their Meanings_ sat on the bottom of the bookshelf. He flicked through the pages about desert animals, mammals, marsupials until he finally found it: standing on its hind legs, bottle brush tail stretched out for balance and small black eyes gleaming with intent, his totem: _Herpestes sanguineus_, according to the caption, commonly known as the black-tipped mongoose.

He looked beneath for the text. When Harry had been chosen she'd read her prediction over and over, memorised it, repeated it then until they were all sick of hearing it. "Did you know, people with Hummingbird totems are supposed to be insightful? Direct and truthful? Artistically gifted and creative? Sometimes flighty, with a fondness for sweet foods and intoxicating substances?" John definitely knew now, all too well.

There were barely a couple of lines of explanation under the mongoose category though: _Uncommon totem. Widely ranging and adaptable in terms of habitat. Predatory._  
John stared at the description and then at the picture of his totem again. Predatory. That was it?

"John? You're up early."

John's Mum was standing in the doorway, in her blue flannel dressing gown, hair messy and a cup of tea in one hand. John saw her eyes turn to take in the book in his hand.

"Oh, did it finally come then?"

John nodded and turned the book towards her so that she could see the picture. Her eyebrows drew together, frowning as she read.

"A mongoose," she said. "Well, I never."

"It doesn't say much," John said.

"Well, there's always less information about the rarer totems," Mum said. "Cute little thing though, isn't he?"

John scowled.

"But very brave and strong, I'm sure," Mum added, smiling.

"It's not fair, Harry had a whole paragraph to explain hers," John said. "How am I supposed to know what I'm like if the book doesn't tell me?"

Mum looked thoughtful for a moment, eyes fixed on the distance over the rim of her mug. "Did I ever tell you," she said, eventually. "The story of Rikki-Tikki-Tavi?"

"No," John said doubtfully. "That sounds like a story for little children."

Mum looked like she was trying to hide a smile. "Well, it is, but it's for grownups too." She put an arm around him, snuggling up a little like she always used to do when John was still young enough to be read stories. "Rikki-Tikki-Tavi was a very smart and clever little mongoose, who lived in India. Do you remember telling me once how you wanted to travel there, to see the elephants and the Taj Mahal?"

John nodded reluctantly. Having a totem that lived in India did sound a little bit exciting.

"Well. One day Rikki Tikki Tavi fell in a river and nearly drowned, but he was rescued by a human family who took him in, and he made friends with their son, a little boy called – oh, I don't remember. Let's called him Johnny. He lived in their house and played in their garden. There, he discovered a family of snakes, and overheard them plotting to kill Rikki Tikki's family, starting with little Johnny. So brave Rikki-Tikki-Tavi fought and killed the Father Snake. But the Mother Snake escaped and Rikki Tikki knew she was even more dangerous. So, he went and found where the Mother Snake kept her eggs and smashed them all, except one. He took the egg and showed it to the Mother Snake, distracting her just as she was on the point of biting his friend. The Mother Snake took the egg and went to hide in her lair but Rikki-Tikki-Tavi followed her and killed her."

John absorbed this. "That's not very nice," he said at last. "To kill all the baby snakes. They hadn't done anything bad."

"The snakes were a threat to his family," Mum said. "Even the babies. And Rikki-Tikki-Tavi would do anything to protect the people he loved." John looked up at Mum. She wasn't wearing make-up yet and the morning light showed up all the downward lines forming around her mouth, and around her sad-looking, sleep-brushed eyes. "Now that your Dad's gone, you're the only man in this house, the only predator. It's your job to look after your sister and me. We need you to keep the snakes away."

John looked down at his hands, feeling the weight of these words settle on him. He nodded.

"I would anyway," he said. "I mean, even in my totem was something different."

Mum ruffled her fingers through John's hair. "I know," she said.

According to Mum's parenting books, after being chosen, it was normal for the abilities associated with a child's totem to increase. It was certainly true that in the months after his desert dream, John found his reflexes grew sharper, he could run faster and longer, and he finally made it into the school rugby team. He also started to get an instinct for when someone was dangerous: the man at the door who told Mum he needed to check the boiler but who didn't have any ID, Mum's colleague, who always pretended to be nice but really wanted her job, the neighbour who was always much too interested in watching Harry play. John faced them down, every single one, with angry eyes and bared teeth.

Years later, John would look back and remember all the clues he'd missed: the wince Mum gave more and more often when she had to stand up, the way she ate less and less at meal times. The bottles that accumulated under Harry's bed, the mornings she was too drowsy and headachey to face the world. John was so very busy watching out for every snake that slithered past the door, he didn't see the venom eating away at his family from within, not until it was all too late.

* * *

"Well, that was fun," Mary says, sliding into the cab beside him.

"Was it?" John says, hollowly.

Mary grins. "Siblings tease each other because they care. I have it on good authority."

"From someone who doesn't have any, I'll bet," John mutters.

"She thinks the world of you," Mary says. "I can tell."

"Yeah, well," John says. He pauses. "She makes it sound like I've dated half the planet – I really haven't, honestly."

"Of course not," Mary says. "Three continents Watson."

"Who told you…."

Mary's smile widens. "Bill," she says.

"I'll kill him," John says.

"Then I'll have to get my gossip from your sister instead."

"Oh, god, not that."

There's a small pause, as Mary looks out of the window, her smile slowly fading. "I wasn't entirely honest," she says, at last, "When she asked about my totem."

"Don't worry about it," John says. "She shouldn't have asked you."

"It's just, I hate all that totem determinism. People looking up your species and trying to read your whole life from it, thinking they know everything about you all of a sudden. I just don't like to think that everything is that set. You know?"

John is quiet for a moment. The light from the streetlamps outsides move through the car, illuminating Mary's face briefly before the shadow chases it away again. When John remembers this conversation, that particular moment will stick in his mind, Mary's face, half-lit and half in shadow.

"Yeah," John says. "I guess I know what you mean."

* * *

There's a notion in popular culture that it means something when someone correctly guesses your totem. In movies it's always the moment when a protagonist realises their true feelings for their lover. Or else it's the conformation of a bond of brotherhood or sisterhood, the cementing of a lifelong friendship.

John had a few friends and a whole a series of girlfriends through university and med school, but not one of them ever guessed correctly. Lisa, a girl with a Persian cat totem (and, incidentally, one of the reasons Harry believes John has a feline fetish) was closest.

"A weasel," she said, one gloriously sunny afternoon right after exams while they were in bed together. They'd got fizzy wine and strawberries with the intent of having a picnic but then concluded the picnic would be more fun if they didn't leave the bedroom.

John made a pained face. "A weasel?" he said. "That's not very flattering, is it?"

"Weasels are loyal," Lisa said, lifting a strawberry to her mouth and nibbling at it delicately. "And... clever… and stronger than they look."

"Oi," John said. He flexed an arm ostentatiously. "I think I look plenty strong enough."

Lisa reached over and pulled his arm up and on top of her. "Hmm, from this angle definitely," Lisa purred and they both laughed.

Lisa dumped him a few months later, for John's housemaster, who was getting into cardiac sugery and tipped as someone who was definitely going places. "I guess it's a totem thing, at the end of the day I want someone who's going to be able to take care of me," she said.

"I take care of you."

"Yes, but I need to be pampered. You can't do that when you're off with the army."

For a while John wondered if it would have been different if he'd taken the opportunity to tell her his totem, instead of laughing it off, if she'd have chosen him instead.

Probably for the best.

In the end the first person to recognise John wasn't a lover, nor even a friend.

John was new in Afghanistan, on his first tour of duty, taken out with the green recruits to get a feel of the terrain but he was still the only one to notice what looked like a small plastic toy half buried in the dust in the road. Without thinking, he flung out a hand to stop the soldier beside him who was seconds away from stepping on it.  
"Look," he pointed, and the soldier's mouth fell open, cheeks blanching.

"Fall back," Major Sholto, the commanding officer barked from behind them. "We've got a possible UO here, get bomb tech now."

The group moved back, setting up a perimeter, tense and waiting.

Major Sholto came over and stood in front of John, eyes thoughtful.

"You're our new medico, aren't you?"

John pulled himself up straight. "Yes, sir. Captain Watson, sir."

"How did you spot that landmine, Watson?"

John shrugged. "I just – I had a feeling."

"Rare to see instincts like that," Sholto said, and paused. "Did you know I was once stationed in India?"

"Really?"

"Yes, remarkable place. Tremendous natural beauty and the wildlife, well. It's something else. Once, I saw a cobra locked in a battle with an animal they called _nevala_," John's eyes widened. "Quite a sight to behold. The way that little animal always knew when to move, when the snake was feinting and when it was really about to strike. Like I said, rare instincts," Sholto turned away, eyes fixed on the bomb techs, but John could tell his attention was really fixed on him. "I'm right, aren't I?"

John licked his lips, feeling suddenly rather breathless. "Yes."

Sholto nodded. "I want you on patrol with us from now on. I know it isn't your job, but I could do with someone with your instincts. Someone who can see a snake in the dirt, and knows how to fight it."

"Yes," John said. "Sir. Of - of course."

Sholto nodded, turning sharply on his heel and walked away.

After that, John was by Sholto's side whenever they went out, scanning the horizon and the ground for any sign of threat. Sholto insisted on overseeing his training too, since as an army doctor he wasn't exactly trained for active combat, accompanying John to the firing range, watching as John practised shooting down paper targets and tin cans. He never said much, except every now and then to correct his technique. Sometimes, after a practice session he invited John up to his room where he had a stock of whisky far better than the watered-down piss they served anywhere else in base camp.

John didn't know if they were friends, exactly – Sholto didn't talk much, even when they were drinking together and never about anything personal – short volleys of information about his plans for future strategy, his thoughts on military hierarchy, terse summaries of previous campaigns that he'd fought in. Often they just sat in comfortable silence at Sholto's desk, looking out of his little window at the sun sinking under the horizon, the stars beginning to prickle into life above.

It was on one of those nights, climbing into his bed with the tang of Sholto's very good whiskey on his lips and his old war stories knocking about in his head, that John dreamt of the desert again.

This time he wasn't alone – there was a great cat standing beside him, vivid orange fur striped with black, pale blue eyes scanning the desert expanse in front of it. The tiger slowly turned its great head to look at John, and John felt his breath catch at the sadness in the creature's eyes. It stood proudly, head high and tail extended, but John knew the desert was not its natural habitat. The tiger was born for the jungle, for the dappled forest floor, the dense underbrush where it could stalk its prey. It was lost here, in this vast empty expanse, without shade or cover.

But John understood this place. John knew the way. And John would protect him.

John woke the next morning with a warmth in his chest. Sholto was in the canteen already, carefully and precisely making his way through a plate of scrambled eggs.  
"James!" John found himself saying, and then flushed. What had possessed him to call his commanding officer by his first name? He looked uneasily at Sholto, expecting a rebuke but Sholto merely looked up at him for a moment, expression unmoving.

"Watson. The eggs are very good this morning," he said eventually.

"I, uh – yes they look. Um, good."

Jesus. What the hell was going on with him?

Sholto scraped back his chair and stood, looking down at John. "I advise that you get yourself some. I'll see you at patrol at 0900."  
"Yes, sir."  
John watched Sholto leave the hall, shoulders stiff and back erect, and took a deep calming breath. So he'd had a dream about Sholto's totem. He'd never heard it talked about, but it probably happened a lot in the army, close conditions, life and death situations, all of that. No need to get weird about it.

John was careful not to slip beyond the bounds of their established relationship again. He never called Sholto by his Christian name, never spoke about the dream which he was sure Sholto had shared, but he knew things had changed between them. Sholto's eyes sought him out whenever he entered a room John was in, meeting his gaze for a short electrifying moment before looking away again. When they were out on patrol together John felt skittish and uncomfortable unless he was by Sholto's side, and though Sholto never looked around John was certain, from the tension in his shoulders, that he felt the same way.

John started to look forward to their evenings together, sitting in the dark of Sholto's chamber and drinking, more than anything. They probably spoke even less then they ever had before to one another, but the silence in itself felt powerful, enveloping John and filling him with pride. He was supposed to be there. Sholto needed him.

It all ended very quickly when they got caught in a scuffle outside Gereshk. Two of their men were hit, and John ought to have been patching them up but the skin at the back of his neck was prickling, instincts pushing him up and onto his feet. There was a man slipping out of the shadow of an alleyway behind them, no gun but a large knife in his hands, and he was taking a run towards Sholto. John aimed the gun before he had time to consider his actions, the shot ringing out sharply. The man crumpled where he stood, and there was a moment of silence.

Taking a few steps forward John stared at the face of the man he had killed, pushing him over and onto his back. The man's eyes were open and staring at the sky. He looked young, barely more than a teenager. He should have been sitting A-levels, sneaking into nightclubs and getting off with girls, not getting the back of his head blown out in a street scuffle.

"John!" He heard Sholto's roar too late – the impact knocked him backwards, crushing him against the wall and curiously unable to breathe, a horrible warmth creeping down from his shoulder.

"Watson," Sholto was crouched beside him. "You're hit, tell me what to do."

John blinked, but found he couldn't answer, the tightness in his chest too great to allow for speech. He let his head fall back into the dirt, and fixed his eyes on the vast blue sky above.

It was months later, in a hospital in England, that John heard news from Sholto. John's troop had survived the firefight with minimal injuries, and got John transported to the hospital. It was on Sholto's next assignment, breaking a new troop of rooks, that he'd stumbled into an ambush. Every one of the men he'd been leading died, and he'd been captured and tortured for several days before escaping.

Of course he had. Sholto couldn't read the desert and without John, there was no one to warn him. John put the letter down, and turned his face to the wall.

* * *

"Penny for 'em," Mary says, as she settles herself on the sofa next to him, handing him his glass of wine. They've both agreed that after a dry evening with Harry, they deserve a reward.

"Hmm?"

"You've been staring at the coffee table as if it's done you some sort of mortal injury for the past ten minutes. What've you been thinking about?"

"Oh. Nothing." John picks up the wine, takes a sip. It tastes good. Cold and sharp.

"Nothing, hmm." Mary moves his arm so she can wriggle under it, and John closes his eyes, focusing on the warm weight of her pressing against his side.

"Just – remembering. You know, all that stuff Harry was talking about, it brought up a few things." Mary turns her head, raising her eyebrows slightly and John can't help but smile. She's right, he isn't being very informative. "Maybe she's right. Maybe I do have a type."

Mary shrugs, one-shouldered. "What's wrong with that? Plenty of people do."

"Nothing," John says. "Nothing's wrong with it."

"Please tell me you're not brooding about your ex-girlfriends. Or – oh," Mary's eyes widen a little, and she pulls away from him, turning to face him properly. "Sherlock was feline, wasn't he?" Her face softens, and she reaches out a hand to rest on his back. "Oh, John."

There's a short silence, as John stares down at his wine and tries not to think about the tightness in his throat, and about what it means.

"What sort was he?" Mary says, after a moment.

"Clouded leopard," John says, his voice sounding a little gruffer than he'd intended it to. He clears his throat. He wonders briefly if it isn't a bit disloyal, telling Mary Sherlock's totem. Even if he is dead. And even if, in life, he'd never much cared to practice discretion about anyone else's. (The time he'd decided to announce to the whole of Scotland Yard that he'd deduced Anderson's totem was a poodle was one for the history books, John thought.)

"God," Mary says softly. "He must have been beautiful."

John snorts, "He certainly thought so." He feels Mary settle back to lean against him, her cheek brushing against his. "Yeah," he adds. "I guess he was."

* * *

It took John quite a while to place Sherlock. John had good instincts and while he didn't have Sherlock's ability to deduce people down to order, family and genera at first meeting, he usually had an idea pretty quickly of what sort of totem they had, whether it was terrestrial or aquatic, mammalian or reptilian, fish or fowl. But Sherlock was puzzle.

The cool unblinking way he'd stared at John when they first met had made John think _reptile_ as did the rush of adrenaline, the beating pulse that sometimes warned John when he encountered a natural enemy. But Sherlock didn't get John's back up the way reptiles typically did, he didn't feel defensive or wary with him as he did around Ella (a mistake on the army's part, assigning him a therapist with a hostile totem, and John really ought to ask for a transfer – but John couldn't bear the thought of backing down, not from a snake).

Then there was the way Sherlock hunted, smart, pitiless, and visceral. He didn't apply tricks, hypnosis, or poison. He liked to face his prey, battle it before disposing of it. And, as John found out on their very first night as flatmates, he had nothing of the reptilian's keen sense of self-preservation. When John found him, alone, with no back up, in the company of a serial killer and apparently about to swallow a poison capsule, John felt a half-joyful rage flow though him, a fire brighter and warmer than anything he'd felt since Afghanistan.

Shooting the serial killer was easy, far easier than killing the boy in Gereshk. As he stood outside the police cordon and watched the techs take away the stretcher on which the lifeless body was carried, as he watched Sherlock, pale but unharmed, being tended to by paramedics, John felt nothing but the sweet pounding of victory in his veins. Whatever Sherlock was, John had saved him. He was John's to protect.

John spent the next few weeks turning over the idea that Sherlock might be some sort of avian – he was far-seeing, definitely, with all his deductions, his appetite was slight and he seemed to have a (sometimes alarming) affinity for high places. But somehow that didn't seem to sit right either. Birds were generally steady workers, constantly foraging and Sherlock had long periods of apathy where apparently even moving from the sofa was too much bother. Birds tended to be frugal with their resources while Sherlock, once he identified something he considered a luxury, liked to wallow in it – expensive clothes, imported tobacco, he even stockpiled fancy bath and hair products, the price tags of which made John's eyes water. And Sherlock was territorial, his brief crime-solving jaunts into the country only seeming to underline his deep disgust of all places that weren't London.  
All in all John was puzzled. Then, one chilly winter morning, John came down to find Sherlock had lit a fire and was now lounging right in front of it, back arched in a way that oughtn't to come naturally to a grown man, and so close to the grate that he was blocking the heat from the rest of the room. John watched him for a moment, and then had a sudden vision of himself walking over to him, running fingers through his well groomed curls, and scratching behind his ears to see if it would make him purr. The idea was intensely funny for some reason, and John collapsed against the back wall, giggling a little hysterically. Sherlock turned to stare at him, expression a little confused.

"What?"

John shook his head and wiped his eyes. "Nothing. You look cold. Want a cup of tea?"

Sherlock gave a one shouldered shrug and tilted his head in a way that John supposed to indicated that tea was considered a moderately acceptable form of tribute on John's part. John went into the kitchen, still grinning.

Feline, definitely.

* * *

John couldn't figure out what sort of cat Sherlock could be, though. He was certain it must be something unusual, a wild breed probably. Something big, luxurious and lazy.

Sometimes he'd dream he was walking about the flat, and be quite sure he'd caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of his eye – the quick flash of a tail, the prickle of whiskers of the back of his hand as he read the paper. If he chose to, he thought, he could fold the paper up, turn around and look at it. But he never did.

"Mycroft's totem is a lion, isn't it?" John asked as they climbed into their cab, outside the gates of Buckingham Palace.

Sherlock turned to look at him, giving him that narrow-eyed, quirk-lipped expression, which meant that John had unexpectedly said something clever and Sherlock was trying very hard not to look like he was pleased about it.

"What makes you say that?"

"I don't know. Seeing him in there, prowling around, all King of the Jungle," John gestured back at the palace. "I always thought he was feline…"

"Why?" Sherlock asked swiftly.

John fought down a smile. It was obvious Mycroft was feline because Sherlock was feline and when they got together – well. John could practically hear the hissing, see ears flattening against scalps as both brothers tried to stake their territory. No one behaved around a sibling like that unless they were also a rival.

"Just a feeling, you know."

Sherlock sniffed in disdain at John's imprecision, but waved a hand as if to concede that John's conclusion at least was acceptable.

"It's sheer self-importance," Sherlock said. "Of _course_ he had to have the symbol of all England as a totem."

"I'm sure it's a coincidence. No one can choose their totem, you know."

Sherlock shot John a dark look as if to indicate that he wouldn't put it past Mycroft to be an exception to that rule. Which, John thought, was a fair point.

"Well, I've never been too fond of lions. Bit flashy."

"The males are idle in the extreme. It's the lionesses who hunt and take care of the pride."

"Coming from the man who sent me all the way out to Dorset to skype him a crime scene because he couldn't be bothered to put trousers on. Maybe you're a lion too."

Sherlock gave John a sideways look. He was waiting, John thought, for John to ask. He knew John's totem – he'd said nothing about it, but John had seen the flash of recognition in his eyes back at the pool. It would be perfectly natural for John to want to know the same. As rude as it would be to ask a stranger, Sherlock was a friend, and closer than any friend John had had in his life before. And Sherlock would tell him if he asked. Somehow John was sure of it.

John licked his lips, glanced out of the window. His chest suddenly felt too tight. He opened his mouth and asked, "How did you know, about the Queen smoking?"

Sherlock looked at him for a short moment, and John couldn't tell if it was disappointment or relief that lingered in those blue, slanted eyes.

"The ashtray," Sherlock replied, and pulled a large crystal dish out of his coat pocket.

John laughed so hard he nearly fell out of his seat.

* * *

John finally saw Sherlock's totem for the first time, thirty seconds before Sherlock died. John was on the street, looking up (begging, pleading) and for a brief moment he saw, not Sherlock on the edge of the roof, but a large smoke-coloured cat, eyes large and some indescribable colour between hazel and grey, fur dappled with black rings. John ought to have been too far away to see the creature clearly but the image of it, the large sad eyes, the slim tail, the white breast and long whiskers stamped itself in John's mind, so clearly that two years later, John could close his eyes and recall every detail.

Then the creature stretched itself and made the leapt forward – and suddenly it wasn't the leopard but Sherlock's body making the long fall onto concrete.

* * *

"I dream about him, sometimes." John says. "Not him – his totem. The leopard. Just standing there, at the edge of the room, as if there's something he wants to say to me."

Mary's hand rubs on his shoulder, drawing slow hypnotic circles.

"When my Mum died, I saw robins everywhere for months," she says, with a rueful smile. "I never told anyone. I was worried they'd send me to a looney bin."

"Do you think it means they're still – you know – out there somewhere?"

Mary shrugs. "Like an afterlife?" She sounds a little skeptical. "I don't know. Maybe." She pauses. "Why do _you_ think you dream about him?"

John looks down at the table, away from her too lovely, too kind face. "I let him down. I left him."

Not just Sherlock, John thinks. He'd let down every single person who'd relied on him. He should have got Mum to see a doctor sooner, should have headed Harry's habit off when she was still young and could change. He should have been a better boyfriend to Lisa, should have been there for James… and Sherlock…. God. John should never have left his side that day. He should never have left him on that roof alone.

John had been set to watch for the snakes under the house but somehow they'd slithered in without him noticing. And now it was too late.

"So, you think your best mate has come back from the dead just to rub your guilt in your face and make you feel like shit?" Mary asks, and her tone is definitely skeptical now.

"D'you think that's something Sherlock would do?"

John gives her a half smile. "He always was a prat."

"Maybe. But in all the stories you've told me, he doesn't sound like the vengeful type."

"No," John concedes. "He wasn't."

"Well, then," Mary says. "How do you know he isn't trying to tell you to buck up a bit? That he understands that you did everything you could for him? Which you definitely did, by the way."

"You weren't there…"

"I know you, though," Mary says, and gives him a swift kiss on the nose. "Always trying to fight for people even when they're perfectly capable of looking after themselves. And while we're at it, I _am_ perfectly capable, you know. Don't you dare pull any of this eternally-responsible-for-you bullshit with me."

"Right," John says, a little hesitantly. He's not so sure about any of that, but he has to admit he feels a little lighter. Mary's right, guilt trips from beyond the grave really don't sound like Sherlock. Not unless he was trying to manipulate John into skyping him crime scenes up in heaven, or fetching him celestial tea or something.

Mary rolls her eyes. "Come on then," she stands and then holds out a hand, pulling him to his feet. "Enough moping. Time for bed."

* * *

That night John dreams that he's walking through a pine forest, in some high cold place, drifts of snow carpeting the ground in patches. A twig snaps behind him and he turns to see a pair of thoughtful hazel-grey eyes regarding him. John holds his breath as the clouded leopard leaps towards him, landing soundlessly in front of him. It's several times his size, its teeth are sharp and John knows its soft paws are hiding razor-like claws, but instead of fear all John feels is a rush of pure joy. The leopard clumsily butts its nose against John, knocking him back into the snow and burying its face in John's belly, licking him, making John giggle at the rough feel of his tongue. John opens his arms wide, pulling the great cat in closer.

"I should have known," John whispers, into thick soft fur, "I should have known you'd fall on your feet."


End file.
